


I'm in the grip of a hurricane (I'm gonna blow myself away)

by blackkat



Series: Tumblr Drabbles [110]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Childhood Friends, Human Train Wreck Madara, Humor, M/M, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 03:55:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15878022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: “Are you sure it’s actually him?” Izuna asks, vaguely judgmental.Madara refuses to be judged by a man wearing pink sunglasses and drinking a protein shake. “Absolutely sure,” he says. “No one could mimic that level of stupidity, either. It's Hashirama.”





	I'm in the grip of a hurricane (I'm gonna blow myself away)

“Are you _sure_ it’s actually him?” Izuna asks, vaguely judgmental.

Madara refuses to be judged by a man wearing pink sunglasses and drinking a protein shake. “Absolutely sure,” he says, rolling his eyes. “No one could mimic that level of stupidity, either.”

“It’s been, what, eight years since they moved?” Izuna scans the street, and Madara pointedly doesn’t tell him he’s got a smear of smoothie on his upper lip that looks like a very questionable mustache.

“Nine,” he corrects, and checks the time again, just to be sure. Hashirama said eleven, and it’s five ‘til. Madara maybe didn’t need to get here an hour early, but it’s a nice day, and he hasn’t seen Hashirama since he was twelve and his family moved away. Finding him on Facebook was a stroke of luck, and Madara isn't about to pass up the chance of seeing him again.

“I don’t even _remember_ him,” Izuna complains. “How are you so certain? He could be a serial killer.”

Madara can't imagine anyone _less_ likely to be a serial killer that Hashirama. “He remembers pulling you out of the river when you tried to swim across in January,” he tells his little brother. “That time you nearly killed yourself, because you're an idiot.”

“Someone dared me,” Izuna says, waving a hand dismissively. “So? Looks?”

There were no pictures of humans on Hashirama’s page, just plants, but that’s about par for the course with what Madara remembers. He squints for a moment, trying to remember more clearly, and then scoffs. “Probably still has that awful bowlcut,” he says dismissively. “Short and weedy and a crybaby.”

“Oh my god, do you like him for his _personality_?” Izuna demands in horror, pulling his sunglasses to stare at Madara over the tops of them.

Before Madara can fling his cappuccino at Izuna, a voice calls, “Madara!” with a cheer that’s definitely familiar. Indignation forgotten, Madara shoves to his feet, spinning around and sweeping a look over the street. There's no dweeby man with a bowlcut, and he frowns, takes a second look, more careful this time. No one seems to be looking in his direction except a tall man, jogging across the empty street with a wave, and—

“Madara,” the man calls, and he’s _not a dweeb_ , he’s not a dweeb _at all_ and Madara doesn’t know what to do with this information. Big, broad across the shoulders, with a fall of long black hair that looks impossibly soft and obedient, unlike Madara's. Dark skin turned even darker by the sun, bright eyes, _massively_ improved fashion sense that no longer incorporates pinstripes, and—and—

“Hashirama,” Madara gets out, strangled, because _god_ he got over the prepubescent crush on his best friend when he was _thirteen_. How is he supposed to stay that way when Hashirama looks like he just stepped out of a magazine ad for good living?

“Madara,” Hashirama repeats as he comes to a stop, softer this time, and that smile is the only thing about him that’s the same, bright and warm and full of heart. One step forward, halfway to hesitant, and he pauses there, eyes flickering over Madara. “You're still the same as ever, aren’t you?” he laughs, but it’s kind.

“You—the bowlcut,” Madara gets out, because for over a decade now Hashirama has been synonymous with _terrible hair_ in his mind, with _dork_ and _crybaby_ and this Hashirama is anything but. He’s _handsome_. Madara is _so offended_ by this fact.

“Ah.” Hashirama chuckles sheepishly, catching a strand of his hair and tugging at it. Madara objects, mostly because he wants to be the one to get his hands in it and pull on it. “I grew it out after we moved, and Tobirama wouldn’t let me cut it. but you grew yours out too!” He beams at Madara like this is the greatest happenstance ever, and Madara feels a little like he’s staring into the sun. That _face_. It should be illegal. Madara's going to run for mayor, and when he wins he’ll declare that Hashirama’s face is a crime and needs to be kept somewhere secure. Preferably in Madara's house. Preferably in Madara's _bedroom_.

“It—it was warmer,” he manages to say, makes himself inhale. Makes himself _think,_ even though it’s hard with Hashirama standing right there.

“That’s true,” Hashirama agrees cheerfully, pauses, and then laughs. He lunges forward, scooping Madara up in a bear hug that lifts him right off his feet.

He has _muscles_. He’s probably six feet tall and he has _muscles_ and long hair and that _face_ , and Madara feels his feet touch the ground and opens his mouth. Means to say something like _what have they been feeding you_ , but what comes out instead is, “Why the _hell_ are you so BIG?”

Behind him, Izuna chokes on his smoothie and starts hacking. Madara hopes he dies that way, the little bastard. Death by frivolous protein strawberry chocolate shake. A fitting end.

Hashirama falters, eyes widening, and he was able to look like a kicked puppy when he was eleven but somehow it works even _better_ now. His full mouth curls into a pout, his head ducks, and he says plaintively, “Madara? Is it—is it _bad_?”

 _I want to climb you like a tree_ , Madara thinks, but thankfully his mouth is too busy blurting, “Don’t pick me up, you massive bastard!” to say that. _Yet_. Given the way this day is going, Madara doesn’t have a lot of hope it will stay in his mouth for long.

Izuna is still wheezing. He’s a _traitor_ , and Madara's absolute least favorite brother.

“Sorry, I'm sorry!” At least Hashirama looks it, all doe-eyed _sincerity_ and those goddamned _forearms_ left visible by the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt. “I won't do it again, Madara, I swear, I'm just—” He beams at Madara helplessly, and reaches out, catching his hand. His fingers are warm, and Madara hates the whole wide world. “I'm so happy to see you again.”

Madara's first reaction is a surging desire to shove his head through a solid wall. Given that the only one nearby is the glass front of the café, though, he restrains himself, and instead turns on his heel, marching back towards the table. “Scram,” he tells Izuna. “You’ve seen it’s him and not a serial killer. Leave me alone.”

Hashirama waves cheerfully. “Hello, Izuna,” he says. “I don’t know if you remember him, but Tobirama came with me, too. He’s back by the library.”

“I don’t remember him,” Izuna says, airily dismissive, but when he stands and starts down the street he’s heading towards the shortcut to the library, not the subway station. Madara would scoff, except that might make Izuna turn around and Madara would really rather he didn’t. he steers Hashirama into Izuna's deserted seat instead, flings himself into his, and tries very, very hard not to grip Hashirama’s hand like a lifeline.

Except it doesn’t matter if he does, because Hashirama is gripping his back, smiling at him like Madara is the best thing he’s ever seen. Madara hates the _whole universe_ , and Hashirama’s whole goddamned face for good measure.

“I'm so glad to see you,” Hashirama says earnestly, and Madara wants to slam his head down into the table.

“Shut up and look at the menu,” he huffs instead. “I see you're still just as much of an idiot as you used to be.”

Hashirama laughs, like that’s at all an allowable thing when it makes him look like _that_. Madara wants to sue. Madara wants to punch him. Madara maybe kind of wants to kiss him and never let him up for air. “Now I have you to help me, though,” he says, cheerful and warm, and grips Madara's fingers just a little bit tighter.

Madara is going to _throw himself off a bridge_. That’s it. That’s his fate. There's no escaping it. He’s going to leap to a watery grave rather that stare at Hashirama’s _stupid face_ , and it will be a vast improvement in the state of things. Madara _can't_. Not when Hashirama looks like that. Not when Hashirama _smiles_ like that.

He’s doomed, and there's absolutely no getting around it.


End file.
